A Bolt from the Blue

Setting this room apart from most, however, were the wooden shelves lining the far wall… or, rather, the objects displayed upon those rows of rough boards. Mixed among the expected crockery were animal bones and clay models of human feet, along with baskets of fur and feathers, and several rock specimens chosen for their intriguing shapes. On the topmost shelf lay what appeared to be the hand of a gigantic frog but was actually a webbed swimming glove that was one of the Master’s newer inventions. His substantial personal library-perhaps two dozen different books-filled any remaining gaps and overflowed onto a stack on the floor beneath.

Gesturing toward the bed, he grandly pronounced it as Signor Angelo’s for as long as he stayed there. “Do not worry,” he added as my father attempted to protest this hospitality. “I have a pallet made up in my private workshop, where I can sleep in equal comfort.”

The workshop in question lay directly off his quarters, with entrance gained by the single narrow door set into the far wall. Perhaps twice as large as his personal chamber, it was the place where Leonardo conducted many of his experiments and built most of his scale models. His larger projects, I knew, were to be found in one of the locked sheds at the far side of the quadrangle.

Unlike the main workshop where we apprentices toiled, the Master’s private workshop normally was kept locked whenever the Master was not within. Once and almost by accident, however, I’d managed a glance inside that secret chamber.

With most of its space taken up with an immense wooden table, which would take four or five men to move, the place had been an exercise in ordered chaos. Sketches and notes covered fully half of that tabletop, with the remaining space taken up by pens and knives and brushes and paints. From the walls and ceiling hung both wood and paper models of various inventions, some appearing to be weapons, and others far more fanciful devices that I could not identify. I’d spent but a few moments there, but I knew that-had I been given leave-I could have spent hours studying what was in a sense the outer expression of the workings of Leonardo’s brilliant mind.

My father made short work of settling in… fortunately for him, as the Master’s eagerness to begin their collaboration was obvious. Still, with a gracious nod, he restrained himself and instead played the thoughtful host for a while longer.

“Since you had a bit of a journey this morning, Signor Angelo, perhaps you and Dino would care to stop by the kitchen. I am certain they will accommodate you even this late. I know you two will have much to discuss, and there may be little time for private conversation with him once you and I are well into our project.”

“An excellent plan, signore,” my father agreed with a small smile. “As you say, we have much news to share.”

Turning to me, the Master went on. “Afterward, bring your father back to the main workshop. We will let him make his acquaintance with our other apprentices, and then I shall show him what has brought him here to Milan.”

Bowls and spoons in hand, my father and I took our leave of Leonardo and began the short walk across the quadrangle.

“An impressive fortress,” he declared as he looked about the series of interconnected buildings that made up the main castle. Glancing up at the battlemented walks of the immense outer walls, he added, “It appears secure against any intruders, and yet the design is pleasing to the eye. The red stone and the white symbolize both strength and vision. And the towers rise with grace, despite their great size.”

“I think it the finest palace in all the world,” I replied with no little pride, as if I were Il Moro himself hearing his compliments.

My father smiled. “Ah, and how many palaces have you seen in your time, my child? Now, let us hope that the quality of the duke’s kitchen reflects the same majesty.”

Though the kitchen boy grumbled a bit at serving us this late, we still enjoyed a fine stew and dark bread that appeared to satisfy my father’s appetite. And as we ate, I broached the subject that had niggled at the back of my mind ever since I arrived in Milan.

“And how does Mother fare?”

“Quite well. Her health is good, her beauty is undiminished, and her tongue is as tart as ever.”

“And does she ever speak of me?” I asked, though without much hope.

My father hesitated before shaking his head.

“I fear she has not forgiven you for leaving as you did, in the dark of night and with no word but a terse note. And, of course, she suspects that I have some idea of your whereabouts. Though she is angered at the notion that I know something that she does not, I think it also brings her some comfort to know that you are alive and presumably well.”